


remainder of two

by thatsakitkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Age Regression/De-Aging, Begging, Bottom Dean, Cursed Dean, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manhandling, Multiple Orgasms, Sextoy Dean, Size Difference, Soulless Sam Winchester, Top Sam, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsakitkat/pseuds/thatsakitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a curse put on him that de-ages him and makes him desperate for Sam to fuck him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	remainder of two

"Sam," Dean moans, arching back against the alley wall, naked torso slick with rain and sweat and desperate tear trails and his jeans are falling down his hips, revealing the shadow of pubic hair.  
  
Sam watches, the little show Dean's giving, head heavy with rain soaked hair and blinking drops out of his eyes alternately. It's dark, but not the kind that's hard to see in; street lights from either end of the alley bloom in and the sky's bright and Dean's a small form of shifting white on the brick.  
  
"Please," Dean says the only other word he seems to know right now, and it cuts through the pounding rain, the guzzle of it through the gutters, and into Sam's cock as surely as a lightning current.  
  
Sam comes to him, crossing the distance in two strides. His knife grip's slippery in his hands, but he presses Dean into the brick and sets the blade against Dean's minuscule bicep and grabs him under the chin with his other hand. Dean's throat contracts, flutters under the clasp of Sam's hand as he rocks his head up to stare at Sam, black seam of his impossibly full lips rounding out.  
  
He's _tiny_ , fuck. Skinny and short and only comes up to Sam's nipples at best, and his eyes and lips are too big for his face and he's a whole lot of nothing, blinking up at Sam and quaking.  
  
He's not a threat. Too small, too needy and half-gone for it. Sam pulls the knife away and tucks it back into his jacket, says, "Dean."  
  
"Sam," Dean gasps, like all the women Sam's fucked gasp in the midst of their orgasm. Dean surges against him in desperation, like a moth trying to get inside a lightbulb. "Sammy, please. Sammy, _Sammy_ , _please_."  
  
Sam drops his hand from Dean's throat and grabs him by the hips, turns his all too eager body around. Dean groans, shoulder blades scrunching as he holds his chest against the wall and thrusts his ass back into Sam's crotch, heat transferring through their wet jeans. Sam grunts and instinctively thrusts before he claws his fingers into Dean's hips and growls, "don't move."  
  
Dean whines, folding his arms on the wall and grabbing at his rain blackened hair, which sends dozens of drops torrenting down his back. Sam follows their paths until he catches sight of it—to the left of Dean's lower spine is a rune, glowing bright red and about as big as a fifty-cent piece. Exactly where the witch or whatever it was had stamped him with the end of her stick.  
  
Sam thumbs over it, hisses when he finds it's scalding to the touch. The rune brightens, glows nearly white in response. There's no reaction out of Dean, so Sam abandons it for now, flips his brother around again and it's easy, like twirling a feather.  
  
There's no doubt what the rune has done to Dean; Dean's a teenager and wants Sam to fuck him and he's out of his mind with delirium.  
  
"Sammy," Dean slurs in his young, dulcet voice, so laughably different than his older, rougher tone. Dean wraps his arms around Sam's waist and pushes his head into his chest. "So _big_."  
  
Sam looks down; those are new words. "What do you want?" Sam asks. Stupid, knows exactly what Dean wants but—  
  
"For you to fuck me," Dean answers, and those are the words that fry Sam's blood. Dean chuckles and mouths at his jacket. "For you to fuck me so good and hard I won't walk for weeks and I'll be able to feel you in my sleep."  
  
Dean shudders. Whines. Thrusts his erection over Sam's thigh. "Need it," Dean hisses, mostly to himself.  
  
"I'll wreck you," Sam tells him, lightbulb to moth.

\--

Dean's jeans drop with a thick slosh on motel carpet and he's naked, glowing in the cheap yellowy ambience. Sam takes him into the bathroom by his stick arm and has him look at himself.  
  
Dean's eyes waver vaguely over his reflection before they're back on Sam, unfocused and too bright.  
  
"Look," Sam prompts, pushing at him. Sends Dean's hipbones crashing into the sink but the boy doesn't even consider it or himself, turns back to Sam and asks, "when are you going to fuck me?" like some kind of dumb drunk animal.  
  
Sam stares at him, irrational anger pulsing in his brain. He grabs Dean by his tiny shoulder and turns him towards the mirror. "Look at yourself," he hisses.  
  
Dean looks into his own eyes dispassionately. "Yeah, what about me?"  
  
Sam clenches his teeth, wrapping his arms around Dean and taking a stick arm, holding it up for the mirror. "It's, this. Look how tiny you are." He slides his dark hand to Dean's wrist, where it's sharp and delicate bone against his palm and his fingers overlap. " _This_." Further down, holds Dean's cool, small hand in his own. It's not even half the size of his and it's smooth, uncallused and there's no crud under his nails.  
  
"How old are you?" Sam asks, takes his hands over Dean's torso next, from his blade-like shoulders to the hard drops of his nipples and lower, over Dean's flat stomach.  
  
Dean rests back into him, arches a little to thrust his hips forward, tempting Sam to go further down and glide over his cock but Sam doesn't indulge him.  
  
"Don't know," Dean says. "Fifteen maybe? Sixteen? It matter?"  
  
"You remember what happened? You know you're not supposed to be like this right?"  
  
Dean hums and just blinks at their reflections. "Gonna fuck me soon?"  
  
Sam scoffs and takes his hands off him, walks out of the bathroom rubbing his brow. His cock's half-hard in his jeans. He sits on the bed and adjusts himself, eyes flicking up to watch Dean follow. He's too damn pretty, and that might be it. That's what makes Sam's teeth grind—he's pretty and he's useless now; if Sam put a gun in his hand he'd probably fuck himself with it.  
  
"Sammy, please," Dean's too-soft too-strong voice pleads, and he's in front of Sam now, kneeling and stroking Sam's thighs with his palms, from knee to the waistband of his jeans, thumbs working close to Sam's heavy crotch.  
  
Sam catches his wrists and squeezes them until bone feels like it's about to give under his palms. Dean blinks rapidly at the pain, but he doesn't pull away, still looking up at Sam with something like rapturous joy in his eyes. Like even if Sam's touch costs him his bones, even if it singes his feelers off, it's worth it.  
  
Sam strokes from Dean's wrists to his elbows, then gets his hands under Dean's arms and lifts him up and in, settling soft weight in his lap. Dean's lukewarm and slightly damp from rain, and when he pushes his forehead into Sam's cheek, water from his half-flattened half-spiked hair seeps down Sam's neck.  
  
"Want me to fuck you huh?" Sam asks, moving his hands around to Dean's ass, which still has plenty of meat on it. Sam squeezes the plump flesh and Dean gives a needy moan, hands coming between them to clutch the triangle of flesh revealed by the low collar of Sam's shirt.  
  
"Please," Dean hoarses, fat lips moving against the graze of nine o'clock shadow on Sam's cheek. He rocks in Sam's lap like the best of strippers. "'m so _empty_ , need you in me Sammy. God, needta be filled up so bad. Gotta be you, gotta—"  
  
"Why me? I can get someone else in here, and they—"  
  
Dean whines, so high it's a keen of steel on steel. The sparks sink through Sam's skin and blood and scorch his bones as black as his smirk. " _No_! It's you, has to be you, you're the only one. You got..." Dean trails off and pants, hands moving down Sam's chest to his stomach, lower. Dean makes an orgasmic noise when he rests his palm on Sam's bulge. "Got a big cock," Dean hums, in breathy awe. He scoots back a little so he can get at Sam better, cups the length of jean-clad dick along Sam's thigh. "Fuck. Mm. Fuckin' monster. Knew it."  
  
Sam flushes hot, from under his jaw to where Dean's touching his dick. He swoops his eyes over Dean once more, his delicate, scarless and pale body, dick probably only half the size of Sam's nestled between his thighs with a thin brush of pubic hair, like sparsely planted wheat. Sam's never felt any inclination to fuck someone as young as Dean is now, never bothered. But older Dean, the one with the gruff voice and broad shoulders and the bleeding heart about Sam's poor missing soul... Sam had entertained _that_ more times than he has fingers and toes. Thought about experimenting, see if he could dominate his older brother, smack him into the wall or onto his car and fuck inside, fuck all those notions of returning Sam's soul to his body and make him believe that this Sam is the only one he's going to get and he better be thankful.  
  
And now he has Dean, in his lap and painfully young, who could give less of a fuck about souls and the world because all he needs is Sam's cock in him. They're both single-minded now, Sam thinks. Efficient. Dean is now the tails side of his coin.  
  
For the first time, Sam looks at his brother and sees sameness.  
  
\--  
  
"Beg," Sam orders, twisting his fingers around inside Dean. Harsh, lubed only with spit, Dean's constriction crushing his knuckles together. He's got Dean on his back so he can see his face, how his whore mouth gapes and how tears leave shiny snail trails on his freckled cheeks.  
  
"Sam, please," Dean sobs, feet planted on the bed so he can rock into Sam's fingers. "Not enough, so empty, fuck, _please_ fuck me."  
  
Sam's ears eat up the words. This is sick and it feels good, and he's addicted to those crying eyes and wobbling lips. He could have Dean here all night. Go from fingers to any objects he can find around the room and just shove those in Dean, things as big as, bigger, than his cock but it'd still be the thing Dean would sob and twist for.  
  
"Better," Sam grits, forcing in his pinkie. Dean swears and thrashes, guzzles air. He hasn't come yet, and Sam doesn't think he _can_ without what he's pleading for. He eyes Dean's cock, like an eggplant jutting from his crotch, crying and leaving slimy trails like the ones on his face over his belly.  
  
" _Sammy please_!" Dean wails, arching off the bed and hanging there a few seconds, tendons in his neck and hands jumped up to the skin. "Need you! Please!" Dean drops back down and inhales a giant shaky breath, more tears dropping. "'ll do anything."  
  
Sam takes his fingers from Dean, smoothes his hands over his thighs. "Would you stay like this forever?"  
  
"Whatever you want," Dean agrees, not the barest second of hesitation. He exhales and then looks at Sam with watery eyes. "Would you fuck me forever?"  
  
Sam doesn't answer. He does pull his fingers from Dean's body, breath escaping from his lips like lung smoke at the way Dean shoves down, trying to catch the fingers, the way Dean cries out and quakes.  
  
Sam rolls him over, just lifts his hips and flops him onto his stomach. Like any animal, Dean curls his knees under him and lifts his ass high, face down in the mattress, fingers plucking the sheets beside his head.  
  
Spit dries, Sam knows. He tells Dean to get the hand lotion from the nightstand and Dean stretches a trembling arm for it. Sam just holds the bottle, his other hand swooping fingers down Dean's crack, rubbing knuckles over his hole. It pulses under his touch, hungry and looking for something to take inside it. The glowing circle on Dean's back is blinking as well, brightening and dimming with the seconds, like a little flame flickering under Dean's skin.  
  
Sam brings himself up, standing on his knees behind Dean. Backlit, his shadow eclipses Dean's slip of a body, looming up over him and a portion of the wall like a daeva.  
  
Sam drops the lotion momentarily, wraps his hands around Dean's thin hips, two fingertips over the brand to feel its heat, its want, and brings Dean's ass towards his cock. Dean groans when Sam's length skates up his crack and whines for it, turning his cheek into the bed to moan, "oh please, Sam, please _now_ , now—"  
  
Sam gives an asscheek a healthy whack, cuts Dean off. Not because he doesn't like the begging (does, loves it like he loves hooker thrills and the way his gun jerks like a hooked fish after a shot) but because of the way it makes Dean go silent and whimpery, and the way his flesh ripples and blooms rash red.  
  
Sam could hurt him like this. There's no need for it, no need to expend the energy, and it's not a want Sam possesses at the moment, but fuck, he could stab his brother through the slats of his ribs and let his blood turn the sheets red and Dean would beg for his dick with the last, butterfly beats of his heart.  
  
But Dean _has_ usefulness, Sam realizes. He's not as of yet a liability, so Sam squirts lotion over his cock from base to head, like putting ketchup on a hotdog. He drops the bottle and spreads the lotion around, dick squelching in the tunnel of his fist. Dean starts begging again, starts out quiet and then gains volume the longer Sam's not inside him.  
  
"Wish you could see yourself," Sam says, not to the Dean beneath him but to the Dean that's dead; the proud, the righteous, who would've been too good to roll himself over for a dick attached to something only nine tenths his brother.  
  
Sam drags his dick up and down Dean's cleft; the way Dean whimpers and shifts restlessly like sugar water in his blood—he's fast becoming addicted to this Dean and his precious, glass-thin begging. He tests Dean's hole with his cock, pushing the head at the pink, twitching corona. It sucks at him like a little mouth, grasping and moving against the head like it's trying to entice him inside.  
  
Dean shoves back with a bark of a sound, shoulder blades moving under his papery skin like wings. "Fuck me," he keens, "get in me Sammy. Now now now."  
  
"Slut," Sam calls him, as easy as saying Dean's name. He pushes with his hips and the tip of his cock disappears into the ring, into anaconda squeeze and sunspot heat. "Whore," Sam continues, voice dropping like a stone from his throat, even and heavy. He claws his fingers into Dean's hips, into the apertures of bones and misty skin.

"More!" Dean shouts, and he wobbles up onto his hands and smacks his ass back into Sam's hips, gulping Sam's cock down. Sam breathes through it, about to adjust his position so he can lean over Dean, maybe bite his shoulders and neck and leak filth into his ears, but Dean moves like a whip, up and crashing back into Sam.  
  
Sam tips onto his back from the force, back of Dean's head colliding with his teeth and rattling them. His cock's slipped out of Dean, who's making hungry noises and working his limbs like an upturned beetle. "Sam, Sam, please—"  
  
Sam snarls and bands an arm around Dean's chest and the other around his shoulders, wraps his hand around Dean's throat. "Get it back in."  
  
Dean could roll over, face Sam and sit up and ride him, but he just slings his thighs over Sam's and plants his feet on the outside, uses that leverage to bend up and sink his ass on Sam's cock.  
  
Sam holds his contracting throat in the barest of squeezes, and rolls his hips up with the scant leverage and space he has. Dean's hard and sharp on his chest, shoulder blades digging into Sam's pectorals and Sam's never fucked anyone like this, but the fact that he can move so little somehow zings more heat through his blood. He works his hips in little jerky upthrusts, barely pulling any inches from Dean, from that hot sleeve.  
  
"Fuck, Sam, so big," Dean moans, rolling his head around on Sam's chest, hands up to hold onto the arm banded around his ribs. His throat under Sam's palm buzzes with his words, "can feel you everywhere. Got a fuckin'—pornstar cock, _ah_!"  
  
He tenses in Sam's hold, thighs shaking. His hole squeezes Sam in a white-knuckled grip and Dean wails loud, too loud and Sam's hand moves from his neck to his gaping mouth as Dean's purpled cock blasts come up his own belly. "Jesus Christ," Sam bites out from the vise-like hold on his cock, how it contracts hard with every dart of come from Dean.  
  
Dean's dick spits for countless moments. He's sunk his teeth into Sam's middle finger, still rocking his hips, helpless sounds dying out in his throat.  
  
When his cock seems to be finished, it doesn't soften.  
  
\--  
  
Nothing satiates Dean. Morning, afternoon, and every hour of night is peppered with "please fuck me, Sammy,"s. Dean doesn't sleep, seems like he doesn't need to, so Sam doesn't get a break. Not that it's a chore to fuck him, but from the scant time Sam's spent on his laptop, there's hunts in California and Colorado and they've been at this motel a week longer than necessary. Sam's restless to move on.  
  
Sam's just started to enter 'sex curses' into the search engine when Dean ducks under his arm and plops himself into Sam's lap. Sam huffs in irritation, trying to look around Dean's bedhead to the screen.  
  
"Why're you wearin' jeans?" Dean complains, looking down and thumbing the button out. "'s like putting a boa in a hamster cage." Dean pulls him out, starts stroking him to hardness. Sam wraps his arm around his back and holds him against his left shoulder so he has more room to see. He clicks on the first result and scans over the page while Dean kisses and licks his neck.  
  
"Does this hurt, Dean?" Sam asks, taking his hand off the touchpad to press on the hot mark.  
  
"Does what hurt?" Dean responds, which is as much an answer as anything. He licks the ridge of Sam's jaw and over his chin. Sam clicks the back button and tries 'sex curse mark', and browses through images.  
  
Dean tentatively licks his lower lip, which makes Sam refocus his eyes on Dean's face. "What're you doing?"  
  
Dean pulls back, fat lips pussy pink and wet. They're fuller now, surrounded by smooth skin, like a peony in milk. Sam stares at them, then drags his thumbpad over the plump bottom lip. He holds Dean's chin and shares breath with him for a few moments, then tilts his head and catches his lips with his own.

Dean squirms in his lap, an excited sound keening from his throat. His lips are soft, plush against Sam's own, give easy when Sam threads his tongue between them. Dean tastes like salt, the bitter, bleach-y taste of Sam's come. Sam's used that mouth plenty the last few days, stuck his cock through those whore lips and shot down Dean's hungry throat.  
  
Dean kisses back, but softly, letting Sam plunder his mouth. Sometimes he's so submissive like this it makes Sam's teeth ache. He kisses Dean harder, leaning into him until the table's edge is digging into Dean's back. Sam pushes his laptop away, charger cord disengaging. He grabs under Dean's ass and stands up enough to drop his brother onto the table, moaning as he drags his cock over Dean's. Dean doesn't seem to mind the rough bite of Sam's zipper, twines his legs around Sam's back, heels dragging along his spine.  
  
Sam kisses him deeper, the hair he'd tucked behind his ears escaping to tickle Dean's cheeks. He rocks in the cradle of Dean's thighs instinctively, cheap table groaning under their weight.  
  
His hands come up, find Dean's tight nipples. He tweaks them between his thumb and forefinger, and Dean breaks their liplock to gasp and arch into the sensation.  
  
He's sensitive here; every inch of him is sensitive and receptive to touch. Sam works the little buds between his fingers, long enough that Dean's hips start hitching and sounds start escaping in little sharp bursts.  
  
Sam catches a nipple between his lips, flicks it with his tongue, tip to tip. Dean unravels just like that, jolting under Sam and ruining another one of his shirts. Sam chuckles and lets saliva drip on the rosy bud, laves it back up.  
  
"Inside?" Dean entreats when his too-long orgasm has subsided, hikes his legs up higher. Tilts his hips enough that Sam's dick falls into his crack, head moving over slippery skin. "Got all lotioned up."  
  
"Mm, good boy," Sam says, lining up. It's a nice slide in. He grunts deep as Dean's body enfolds his cock, Dean's fingers caught in his shirt sleeves, sinking into his triceps. "Good," Sam says again when he's in. A lot of his weight is on Dean, rickety chest under his muscles, but Dean doesn't complain, so Sam starts a rough rhythm that forces grunts from Dean and jerks him an inch up the table on every push in.  
  
Dean comes again soon enough, and it seems to be just as powerful and as long as the first one. Sam's wondered if it's the curse that causes it to be so prolonged, or if Dean's always been that lucky. What the curse does for sure is keep Dean's cock stiff, his hole hungry, and his world shrunk.  
  
After Sam's come, filled Dean with it once more like it's his only source of nutrition (has been, fuck Dean hasn't eaten this whole time) Sam stands, leaving Dean in a human shaped mess on the table. "We're leaving today," Sam tells him, tucking himself back into his fly. "Looks like some rawhead in Colorado. Gonna be a long drive, and you're gonna behave; sit still and watch the road. Soon as you get in my way..."  
  
Dean's eyes are hooded and dazed as he stares up at Sam, and for a moment Sam doesn't think he understands, but then Dean licks his lips and nods. "I'll be good. You'll fuck me once we park?"  
  
"Once we get inside the motel," Sam corrects. "And only one time, then I need to interview the witness. You'll stay there and wait till I get back."  
  
"I will."  
  
"Good. Get dressed."  
  
"In what? I'm munchkin-sized."  
  
He sounds so much like his older self then that Sam pauses, looking at him and ludicrously expecting his limbs to lengthen and stubble to start sprouting on his face. But Dean just stares back, then flicks his eyes down to his ever erect cock. "What about this?"  
  
Sam smirks. "Try taping it down."

\--

Dean looks wholly ridiculous in his oversized, falling-off-a-shoulder shirt and jeans he's basically doubled up around his shins so they don't go past his feet, near dress-length shirt covering his erection. But he gets in the passenger seat, and he's quiet during the drive. Doesn't even touch the radio or himself.  
  
Sam clears his throat and passes a glance at him several times, stuck thinking about the rune hiding under his clothes. Semantics—is it going to go away, is Dean just going to stay like this forever, stuck wandering the world like a siren wraith, shadow of his former self alongside Sam's?  
  
Sam supposes the fractions of them might make a whole. Not like Sam needs a hunting partner, and the more he thinks about older Dean's plans to re-soul him, the more he thinks he'd be satisfied with leaving Dean this way. His own personal fucktoy. Beats old Dean's negligible use as a hunting partner by a longshot.  
  
It rains the whole drive, ranging from soft pitters on the Impala's roof to hard pounding drops that fill the car with a continuous roar for a few miles of interstate. It's dark around four pm, when Sam pulls into a motel parking lot. Sam tells Dean to stay in the car while he gets them a room, and Dean does, gets out when Sam has their key. Obedient, no backtalk.  
  
The lotion provided in this room smells like hippie herbs, but Dean doesn't gripe about it. Sam appreciates him more and more as he presses Dean into the wall and fucks him through several orgasms, listening to Dean's desperate pants and those little helpless cries that cut the air, small body wedged between Sam and the wall and taking it. Sam leaves a wreath of bruises on his hips, imprints of his teeth on Dean's shoulders and upper back. There's a healthy splatter of come dripping down the wall when Sam flips Dean around, looking down at his face. Dean looks up, red in the cheeks and nothing but awe in his feverish eyes. A dazed smile creeps into his cheek.  
  
"Doesn't go away huh?" Sam questions, looking between them to where Dean's cock is still stiff. "You come and come and it doesn't go away."  
  
Dean looks down and drags just his fingertips up the side of it, gives a visible shudder. "'s useless."  
  
Sam chuckles. "What?"  
  
"Hurts more than anything, and." Dean licks his lips and looks up again, eyelids low. He takes Sam's wrist and presses his palm over a nipple. "These feel good," takes Sam's hand lower, gliding his palm over his ass. "This feels the best. When you fuck me, 's like you're scratching an itch deep inside." Dean's eyelids flutter and his cock bubbles with more precome. Sam slides his fingers into his crack, which is sloppy with Sam's come and lotion and Dean rocks his hips, pushing his face into Sam's ribs with a delicate sound.  
  
His body's a siren's verse. A little slip of addiction. Sam pulls back from him with a degree of difficulty. "I need to go now," he says. "Probably be back late."  
  
Dean makes a noise of discontent, but pulls back. "I'll be here," he says.  
  
\--  
  
Dean is of course there when Sam returns to the motel, another fried rawhead under his belt and satisfaction in his blood. Hunts, killing, sex—lights him up with sensation and feeling. Sam feels it as an instinctive primitive thing, fundamentals and cornerstones of himself.  
  
Dean wants to ride him. Sam allows it, puts an elbow behind his head as he watches Dean do all the work, sweat eventually making him glow, tongue held in the corner of his mouth and his eyes shut in bliss. Dean's come several times by the time Sam does, hissing and holding Dean's hips and burying himself deep to Dean's soft spill of encouragements and needy gasps.  
  
Sam's aching and sore but not tired, never tired. When his soft cock slips out of Dean, he sits up and wipes himself off with a sheet corner. "You haven't slept since you got cursed," he says to Dean, just musing out loud. "Or ate."  
  
Dean shrugs listlessly. "Yeah. Neither have you."  
  
"I don't need to."  
  
"Neither do I."

Sam breathes out, licks his lips. "Do you remember, Dean, do you remember what I am? That I'm not... not who I used to be? That a part of me is—"  
  
"In the cage."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Dean just keeps looking at him. Sam stares at his blank expression. "But you don't care. You don't wanna try and get that piece back or anything right?"  
  
Dean seems to take a moment to think about it, then just shakes his head. Sam reaches for him, for a hand as thin and white as the bones beneath. "I want you to stay like this. You're better like this."  
  
Dean says, "I will."  
  
Sam thinks about that the rest of the night, when he's inside Dean again, hour after hour until the birds chirp in the early morning. There's predator, and prey, which Sam doesn't think Dean is, not anymore. Dean's more of a benefit under Sam, and alive.  
  
\--  
  
Dean gets call after call from Bobby. Sam thinks about shutting his phone off, throwing it in the Colorado River, but instead he instructs Dean to leave a message. "Say 'Sam and I need to lay low for awhile, we're both all right but we need you to stay out of it.'" Sam mimes Dean's older, rough voice, "make sure you talk like this."  
  
Dean snorts and smiles. "I'll try. What if he picks up?"  
  
"It's three in the morning. If he does answer, just say what I told you than hang up."  
  
Bobby doesn't pick up. Dean leaves the message verbatim in as low a voice as he can muster, which is good enough to pass for the original over the phone. Sam then turns the phone off, and blocks both Bobby and Samuel on his own cell.  
  
"What's the big deal with Bobby?" Dean asks soon after, settling in Sam's lap, back to his chest. He shifts his hips in a sinuous undulation, grinding his ass over Sam's limp cock, working to get it stiff enough to drop down on.  
  
"'cause, if Bobby knew what happened to you, what we're doing, he'd try to find a way to reverse the spell." Sam touches the circular rune on Dean's lower back, traces the heat.  
  
" _Is_ there a way?"  
  
"I don't know," Sam says truthfully. "But you wanna stay this way. You want me to keep fucking you, don't you Dean."  
  
"Mm-hm," Dean hums, "more than anything."  
  
"I want to keep fucking you," Sam grunts when Dean lines up over his cock and the sharp jolt of Sam's hips sends it deep inside Dean. "I want you to stay like this forever."  
  
"Okay. I will," Dean says again, and even in his soft tone the words are absolute. He squirms in Sam's lap, looking for leverage since his feet don't even touch the floor. Sam takes his hands and puts them on the armrests. Dean's fingers flex under his palms as he draws himself up, then down, arms shaking just a little bit, feet curling around Sam's shins. Those helpless pants that come from him when he's got Sam's cock in him are the hottest sounds Sam's ever heard, sex with Dean is the best he's ever had.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasps, speeding up, beadlets of sweat dropping down his spine. "God, fuckin'—fuckin' perfect—" his shakes spread, from his arms to his shoulders to his body until he's vibrating with them. Sam growls and lets go of the armrests to wraps his arms around Dean and bring the boy against his chest. He hooks his chin on Dean's sharp shoulder and looks down his body to his cock, at his slit dripping with precome. He holds Dean around his ribs and drops his hand to touch Dean's dick, barest brush of his fingertips.  
  
Dean yelps, jerking like a fish on a hook. Sam feels him try to move backwards, but there's only Sam's unyielding body behind him. "Sh," Sam shushes, and gets a firm hold on the hot, steel-thick flesh.  
  
Dean cries out, shoving back into Sam. "Oh, Sam, please, _please_ don't, don't, it hurts, _hurts_ , don't touch me there—"  
  
"Quiet."  
  
Dean whines loud and high, but his mouth stops shaping words. He's tense as a wire in Sam's arms, stiff like he's been filled with brick. He sobs when Sam strokes him, breath turning watery and snotty and catching like a skipping record. His hips hitch forward and back, Sam's cock in him to the root.  
  
More precome burbles from the head of Dean's dick, dripping down the purple and angry-red mottled length. "If you don't like this, why are you getting so wet?" Sam asks Dean in a dark tone, jacking him in slow pulls, makes sure to squeeze around the head. Dean keeps jumping in his arms, spasmodic and involuntary and stuck in place, trapped by Sam's body and Sam's hand around his oversensitive cock.  
  
Sam works to wring the come out of him, squeezing and tugging and working the organ until Dean's soaked in sweat and begging once more, "please Sammy, please stop, hurts," over and over in a breathless litany. His dick gets wetter and wetter, breaths faster and faster.  
  
When Dean comes, Sam clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle his scream. Dean nearly tips the chair over with how hard he bucks against Sam, come spraying Sam's fingers in hot bursts, ass tightening up.  
  
Sam moves forward, taking them out of the chair and crashing their knees into the floor, surges over Dean and thrusts so hard there's a loud _clap_ when his hips smack into Dean's ass. Three lunges in and out, then he comes, hissing and grinding through it.  
  
Dean's sobbing and trembling, but he keeps his ass in the air for Sam, stays there while Sam pulls out and rubs his dick in the mess, then his fingers, probes inside of Dean's slick hole and swirls them in the mix of lotion and come. Lax, slick, smooth inside like a small mouth, clasp of Dean's rim sucking at his fingers like lips.  
  
Dean shakily twists onto his back, keeping his legs spread and hips tilted for Sam's exploring fingers.  
  
"What happened?" Sam teases, when he notices Dean's cock has finally gone limp, more red than purple now. He aims his fingers for the swell of Dean's sweet spot and barely gets a twitch out of the sorry looking thing. "Think it just needed to be touched, huh? All this time you've been coming just from me fucking you."  
  
"Hurt," Dean slurs, eyes closed. He swerves his hips on Sam's fingers and gasps. "I'm not—but I'm still—"  
  
"Your dick's limp but your ass is still horny," Sam supplies, "always is. No matter what, huh Dean?"  
  
Dean nods, quickly getting flustered all over again, sex flush creeping back into his chest and neck. Sam fills him up with three fingers and Dean chokes on air, hips flattening as he tries to get himself as full as possible.  
  
Sam watches his movements with greedy eyes. There's no satisfying Dean. As long as Dean lives, he'll only ever be afforded murky satisfaction without any kind of complete relief.

 


End file.
